


Policy of Truth

by hayleyisbored



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Drama, Enemies, Mulder has questions?, Tension, Tentative Truce, what do i even tag this as?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayleyisbored/pseuds/hayleyisbored
Summary: God help him, Mulder nearly does shoot him then.
Relationships: Alex Krycek/Fox Mulder
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Policy of Truth

Mulder snaps to attention from the edge of sleep, jolting as if someone has physically taken him by the shoulder to shake him awake. Around him, the room is draped in hazy orange light from the street outside, filtering in through the open blinds.

Before that, he had been exhausted; it had been the kind of tired he could feel weighing heavily beneath his eyes. He'd drifted off, one leg hanging from the side of the couch and bare foot pressed to the carpeted floor, the stack of photographs he'd been leafing through now vanished from his fingers. 

He'd found them tucked away in the back of a drawer, pushed out of mind long ago by more pressing issues. Fuzzy indiscernible shapes in the trees, behind bushes, streaking across the sky; they'd been his lifeline to lifeforms on different planets. His reliance on a stranger's shaky snapshots to bolster his obsession, his need to find reason and make sense of his sister's disappearance. To justify the years he's spent searching.

So much has happened since Scully walked into his basement office, he can hardly recognise himself anymore. His hunger for answers has twisted him into a paranoid mess. 

He takes pause to wonder if any of it was really worth it.

Mulder recognises the danger of that route and shakes himself from his thoughts, one hand going up and sinking into his hair as a curse whistles out from between his lips. The Polaroids are scattered across his floor and beneath his coffee table, and he's reaching for them with a sigh, folded over at the waist, when he hears the soft tap at his apartment door. 

It's gentle enough that it could almost be mistaken for just another noise in his building; it's one of the kids in the apartment above dropping a small toy, it's the lady a door down kicking off her heels, it’s a key in a lock.

But Mulder knows better. His gut tells him it's what woke him, what snagged at the awareness always working beneath his surface even during hard-won slumber. 

Mulder's gaze skitters to the clock, confirming that it's far too late - or early - for anyone with good intentions to be meandering about in the corridor outside, to be _lurking_ at his door. 

The tap comes again, with an edge to it now. Still cautiously quiet as if it's trying to exist for Mulder's ears only but there's something of an impatience to the sound, of a warning telling him not to take too long to rouse himself.

Mulder slides his other leg from the couch and stands without making noise, stepping over the photographs to grab for his gun from the computer desk. There’s a whisper of sound, the friction from his jeans as he skirts the fringes of his living room, gun raised and pointed at the door.

He waits a beat, then another, grasps the handle and then -

When he yanks the door open, Mulder’s first instinct is to squeeze the trigger.

Alex Krycek is standing in front of him, leaning against the doorframe. 

There’s stubble peppering his jaw, dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks gaunt like he’s been deprived of steady meals and adequate sleep for some time but the obnoxious attitude he carries with him remains intact and he wields it now in the way he looks Mulder over, as if he’s already judged him and found him lacking. It sends a tensed muscle twitching in Mulder’s jaw.

He smiles at Mulder around the gun, serene as if the weapon isn’t being pointed at him. As if Mulder is no threat. 

"Occupying yourself with some late night reading?" Krycek says by way of greeting, indicating at the glasses Mulder had forgotten to take off. “I hope I didn’t disturb anything.”

The words are loaded with innuendo, coyly teasing like he wants to make the FBI agent blush. Mulder resolutely ignores this.

“What the _hell_ ,” he hisses, keeping the gun steady and trained at Krycek’s calm face. “Give me one reason not to shoot you right now - I dare you.”

“Mulder.” Krycek admonishes with a smirk. “It’s three in the morning. If you shoot me, you’d wake your neighbours.” 

“You think I’m joking, you goddamn - “

Krycek shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder into the hallway. The action would have seemed uninterested, casual even, if it weren’t for the tightness about Krycek’s mouth. That alone belies his relaxed demeanour, throws the entire charade out the window.

“Why are you here?” Mulder demands, “Are you here to kill me?”

Krycek has the gall to look astounded before it smooths over into practiced apathy. He unhinges his shoulder from the doorframe, nodding at the gun.

“You can put that down. If I were here to kill you, do you really think I’d be knocking? Not exactly my M.O.” 

And that cruel reminder stings, cuts deep down to bone and slips expertly into the yielding muscle of Mulder's heart. God help him, Mulder nearly does shoot him then.

“ _Why are you here?_

“Let me in and I’ll tell you.” Krycek bargains, lowering his voice. “What I have to say might even be true.”

Mulder opens his mouth, lips curled in disgust but Krycek suddenly winces, losing some of the colour in his face. His hand comes up to his stomach, drops back to his side just as quickly. His voice takes on a hint of desperation.

“C'mon, Mulder, I'm asking nicely. Look, keep the gun on me if you want, just let me come in. We’ll both be dead before too long if I have to keep standing out in this hallway. I don’t know who’s watching me.”

Mulder hesitates for a second before jerking his head and stepping back, allowing Krycek to sweep past him in a blur of leather and arrogance.

That’s always been his problem, Mulder thinks bitterly to himself as he snaps the door shut and throws the lock, he always does let curiosity get the best of him.

“You better start talking, Krycek, or you’re not going to last much longer in _here_.”

“Such a gracious host," Krycek says blithely, kicking the photographs out of his way so that he can drop like a stone onto the couch, occupying Mulder’s vacant seat. “Always so welcoming. You’re a real treat at night.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be - what are you doing?!” Mulder asks sharply, watching in disbelief as Krycek begins maneuvering his arms out of his jacket.

“It’s why I’m here.” Krycek tells him patiently despite gritted teeth. The action of stripping down to his shirt seems to be costing him. “I need your help.”

Mulder is too dumbstruck to react properly, mind going blank. “With what? You want me to take off your shoes, too? Unzip your pants?”

“That’s cute, Mulder, but no. I actually - “

Krycek breaks off to swear, first in English then in Russian, as he peels his shirt away from his abdomen. Mulder can tell from where he’s standing that the black material looks wet, sticky to the touch. It shines even in the artificial lighting.

“Are you _bleeding?_ What the hell happened to you?”

There’s a thin sheen of sweat on Krycek’s forehead but despite his evident pain, he looks up to flash a dark grin at Mulder. 

“Let’s just say I pissed off all of the wrong chain-smoking people. I guess my rugged good looks and natural charm finally wore thin and no amount of threats from me will put him off this time.”

“You wouldn’t have so many people trying to kill you if you would just pick a goddamn side,” Mulder comes closer and in spite of himself - in spite of their history, his paranoia, in spite of everything - lowers the gun. “You make me look like Mr. Popular.”

“Don’t - tell me that’s why - “ Krycek spits out through flinches of agony, yanking his shirt off completely in one swift motion. “ - you keep me around.” He dumps the ruined shirt on the floor, breathing hard, heedless of the photographs and Mulder’s poor carpet.

Whatever Mulder was going to say is lost in the face of so much red. The gash on Krycek’s stomach is deep, purposely placed and lethal looking. It’s a miracle he made it to Mulder’s door; it looks like someone has tried to gut him. He's painted crimson up to his chest, a walking target. Perhaps it's a testament to Krycek's unique skill set that he's still walking and talking.

Mulder whistles, low and to comical effect. It earns him a barely audible _fuck you_ and he tries not to feel too pleased about pissing Krycek off. 

“Tell me you have a first aid kit here.” Krycek groans, hand fluttering over the wound as if he can't decide if touching it will make it worse. “I need to close this up.”

Mulder raises an eyebrow and feigns contemplation, “Scully might have left a few things behind from time to time…”

“Damn it, Mulder. If I die, I’m not the only one who’ll be fucked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Krycek levels him with a look. “You _know_ that there are people out there trying to silence you.” 

“What does that have to do with you dying? Why should it matter to _me_?”

“Because right now, I’m one of the only people keeping you alive.”

Mulder pauses, huffs out an incredulous laugh. “What? You didn’t give a shit about me in Tunguska, you left me to rot - “

“What can I say? My own self interest is an overpowering thing. I paid for it in flesh in the end.” Kryceks says, glancing at his left shoulder. “Besides, I might have got you out...eventually.”

Mulder’s eyes involuntarily drop down to Krycek’s shoulder too, to his prosthesis. He doesn’t have Scully’s expert eye but the amputation hasn’t been done cleanly or professionally, and he finds himself trying to imagine just how much such a botched operation would hurt. 

“What - what happened to you back there?”

“Let’s just say the locals offered to help me after I...parted ways with you. Turns out we had very different ideas of what that meant.”

So Krycek _had_ paid but the lesson never seems to stick with him. Mulder wonders how far the man will go, how much he’s prepared to lose for his cause, for his agenda - whatever that is. Mulder wonders how far _he_ is willing to go for his own answers. Maybe he and Krycek are two sides of the same coin, that Krycek is the face in the dark side of the mirror. 

Mulder knows the axis his world spins on is slipping. He _knows_ it is. He's losing trust, losing faith, losing sleep. Would he know when to stop if he knew he was close to something? 

Would he want to?

The thought disquiets him, sends a chill through his veins. 

“...I should let you bleed out.” 

“But you won’t.” Krycek says it with enough conviction but there’s a flicker of doubt there in his expression. “You won’t because you’re better than me. You still have principals.”

“I wouldn’t count on that.”

Mulder glances at the gun in his hand, thinking how easy it could be. He’d come close, before. There is no Scully here to intervene, to shoot _him_ again and save him from himself. It’d mean one less scumbag to deal with, one less bastard to orchestrate distracting mind games and tricks to put Mulder in a tailspin.

He sighs heavily, then carefully and pointedly unloads the gun, tucking the empty weapon into the waistband of his jeans. Mulder gives in because Krycek is right; his principles are the only thing differentiating him from the traitor before him. Scully had shown him that much.

“I’ll get some things. Just don’t try and kill me while my back is turned.”

“I already told you, that’s not what I want. Call it a precarious truce, if it’ll make you feel better!” Krycek calls after him as he heads into the kitchen.

Mulder tries to pick up the pieces of himself that had scarpered at the sight of Krycek. He collects them the way he’s collecting the first aid kit from under his sink, the half empty vodka bottle from the cupboard, scissors from the kitchen table. He has to stop and suck in quiet breaths before he can face Krycek again.

“Here - “ Mulder says when he comes back into the living room, dropping the supplies haphazardly onto the couch. "It's all I have."

Krycek’s gaze goes from the vodka bottle to Mulder’s face and back down to the bottle. It performs the lap all over again.

“I’m going to need you to stitch it up for me.” Krycek finally admits. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Mulder gapes, falling further into astonishment when Krycek says nothing. “You're trusting me to do this? Why don’t you just go to the hospital like the rest of us?”

Krycek rolls his eyes as if he’s dealing with something particularly irksome. “And get murdered the second I’m left alone? No. This is the safest place for me right now. No one would dare come in here at present - and they're probably hoping you might finish me off yourself.”

"Don't rule it out," Mulder pulls off his glasses and tosses them onto the coffee table, struggling to keep his frustrations in check. “This is unbelievable.” 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you right now, Mulder.” Krycek says slowly, picking carefully through his words. “If you do this, I’ll answer some of your questions. I can’t do that if I’m dead.”

 _"Bastard,"_ the agent thinks furiously.

It’s exactly the right thing to say and Mulder grows testier, thrown off balance by how _well_ Krycek appears to know him. He knows just how far he can push Mulder, toes the line so precisely that he’s turned it into an art form.

“Fine.” Mulder says, roughly shoving Krycek’s leg out of the way so he can move in closer. He drops down onto the floor, kneeling like he's confessing at Krycek's feet. “ _Fine_ but you picked the wrong FBI agent to lick your wounds. You should have gone to Scully if you wanted it clean.”

"Scully hates me."

"And you think I don't?"

"We're more complicated than that, Mulder."

And what can he say to that? Mulder would be a liar to deny it. His retaliation is childish, manifesting in a generous pouring of vodka directly onto Krycek’s wound without warning, surprise enough to make the man hiss from between his teeth.

Mulder shrugs nonchalantly at the glare Krycek shoots at him. “Would’ve needed sterilising either way.” 

“It’s your thoughtfulness I like most.” Krycek says with irritation, visibly working to control his expression again. “You’re a saint among men.”

“If you enjoyed that, you’re going to really love this next bit…”

The moment the needle pierces through Krycek’s skin, one hand comes down to clutch at the armrest of the couch, fingers curled and knuckles tinged red. Krycek lets out a steady breath through his mouth, eyes pinched shut.

“Sorry,” Mulder murmurs through his concentration, not feeling too sorry at all. Consider it a small payback, consider it minor retribution. It’s not much but it helps a little to see Krycek trembling from the pain before him, to have his blood beneath his nails. Justice catching up with the double-crosser, swift and sure. “This isn’t exactly my ideal Friday night either, you know. Just keep your eyes closed and think happy thoughts.”

“Shut up.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” Mulder says almost cheerfully, trying his best to keep a slippery grip on the needle. “Who are you working for?”

“I see we’re getting right into it,” Krycek picks up the abandoned vodka bottle and takes a hearty glug, wincing as he swallows. “You could say I’m between employers at the moment.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been keeping me alive out of the goodness of your own heart? I’m touched. How long have you been following me?”

“I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while now…”

“So does the Smoking Man know you’re in my neck of the woods?”

“Oh, he knows that I’m here and what I’m doing but I’m unpredictable to him, I’m a threat. He wants me gone even if we share a common goal.”

“Which is?” Mulder pulls the thread taut and Krycek has to bite down on his hand to keep from moaning too loudly.

“Have you not been paying attention?” Krycek says eventually, voice ragged and muffled around his clenched fist. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”

“Why would he want me alive? I’m a nuisance to him.”

“I don’t know,” Krycek admits, expression turning pensive. The light from the fish tank casts a glow across one side of his face, throws the lines of his frown into focus. “I don’t know what he’s thinking.”

“That bothers you.” Mulder surmises, trying to reconcile with the oddity of the conversation, the surrealism of calmly discussing his life with Alex Krycek. “You don’t like being in the dark.”

“Of course I don’t.” Krycek snaps, turning his head away from the light to better obscure his features. “I make it my business to know exactly who I’m dealing with. You're hardly one to talk - you built an entire career out of seeking information. You can't stand not knowing.”

“You’re right.” he concedes, looking up from the task at hand to meet the gleam of Krycek’s eyes in the shadows. “It’s why you piss me off so much. Trying to understand you is like running on sand. Every time I think I’ve found firm footing, I fall flat on my face.”

Krycek’s low laugh is as close to an admission as anything he’s ever said or done before. It’s the truest sound he’s made this night.

“FBI, Consortium, Russian - I’m whatever I’m needed to be.” Krycek lets his head fall back onto the couch so all Mulder can see is the long line of his throat and squared chin, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “If you ever manage to completely figure me out, then I really would have to kill you.”

“Is that why whoever did this to you went along with the Smoking Man’s plan? Did _they_ figure you out? Are they trying to beat you to the mark?”

“You’re smarter than that, Mulder. You know a hired killer when you see one. They just do what they’re told.” Krycek points out, gesturing to himself with a dismissive wave. "But for a while now, the others think I've grown sentimental, they view me as a hindrance. I've become compromised in their eyes."

"Have you - " Mulder tries to ask but the words become stuck in his throat, a wave of some alien emotion, large and indecipherable, flooding him. He focuses on the careful push and pull of the needle, swallows hard and tries again. "Are you compromised?"

Krycek remains silent for a beat as he ponders the question, lifts his head to watch Mulder with an inscrutable look. 

"Wouldn't you like to know."

And Mulder feels some reluctant truth spill between them in that moment, a passing of silent understanding flitting from Krycek's eyes locked to his own. A comprehension too much, too soon, to really fully grasp at present. Something to be carried away, dissected and peeled back, when Mulder is alone.

“Why _do_ you want me alive?”

“Among other things? I think you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d let myself be of any use to you.”

Krycek laughs again, laughs like he pities Mulder, dark eyes crinkling as if the two of them are sharing a joke over a few beers. He indicates between them, to Mulder’s steady hands stitching Krycek up again.

“Mulder - what do you think is happening _right now?_ ”

“This is different. This is - it’s - “

It’s Mulder wanting to avoid explaining to Scully how a dead Krycek wound up in his home. It’s Mulder praying to god he isn’t in the middle of some elaborate plan to frame him. It’s Mulder swerving any attempts for someone to kill two pesky little birds with one stone. As far as he’s concerned, he’s saving his own skin by _not_ letting Krycek bleed out. Check mate.

“Sure.” Krycek says, nodding like he can hear Mulder’s thoughts. “It’s whatever you’ve justified it to be in order to get yourself through the idea of helping me.”

“You’re a bastard.” Mulder tells him darkly, finishing off the stitches with a violent snip of the thread.

“I know.”

And why does that sound like an apology to Mulder’s ears, spoken softly as if Krycek himself can barely allow it? Once more, Mulder recoils from the implications of that knowledge, pushing away from Krycek to pace across the room instead.

“We’re done here. Get out before I change my mind.” Mulder announces to his wall, rubbing blood-stained palms on his jeans. He waits to hear any noise of Krycek moving to leave but there’s nothing behind him but silence, heavy and insistent and as palpable as a living being.

It takes Krycek hardly any time to recover his audacity.

“Can I at least borrow a shirt? Mine is ruined.”

Mulder doesn’t even grumble over it, he just wants the man gone. He marches into his bedroom, rummages around in his closet before coming up with an old sweatshirt. Krycek is already on his feet by the time he returns to the living room, wordlessly accepting the clothing that Mulder has launched in his direction.

From the corner of his eye, Mulder watches Krycek slip the sweatshirt over his head, shrug back into his leather jacket. There’s the briefest glance now at the polaroids on the floor as he heads towards the door, practically imperceptible if Mulder hadn’t been paying attention.

Mulder follows, trails him until Krycek is stood back in the hallway and firmly on the other side of the threshold. Mulder is suddenly bone tired, wondering how much time has passed, wondering how much sleep he can squeeze in. Wondering if that’ll even be possible for him now.

“Mulder…” Krycek begins, face ashy and mouth stern. There’s a smudge of dried blood on his jaw, smeared up towards his cheekbone. Suddenly, he looks so much younger. It makes him look like that promising rookie agent who had partnered Mulder, full of potential but out of his depth. “Thank you.”

An act, Mulder reminds himself forcefully, it’s all an act. It always is.

“Don’t thank me,” Mulder tells him, hand braced tightly against the edge of the door. “You might die yet.”

The last thing Mulder hears as he swings the door shut is Krycek’s quiet laugh, quieter words sneaking in through the gap between door and frame. They creep in just before the door clicks, against Mulder’s wishes. Just like Krycek himself.

“ _Not if I can help it._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Truth be told, I wasn't sure if this was good enough to upload or if anyone would be interested but it was just sitting around on my laptop. Either way, I have no business posting this fic in 2021 but here we are.
> 
> Aside from distant, spotty memories from my childhood in the 90s, I haven't watched The X Files past season 6 so it was a wild ride trying to track exactly what the fuck Krycek is doing throughout the show using Wikipedia and a fansite from 20+ years ago.
> 
> I _think_ this is set post-Tunguska and pre-The Red and the Black, with some artistic license just for a timeline reference but honestly, I don't know anymore.
> 
> Oh, title is courtesy of Depeche Mode.


End file.
